


Habari Gani!

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, Holiday, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During this Kwanzaa holiday, several firsts are celebrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habari Gani!

## Habari Gani!

by Seasprite

The characters of "The Sentinel" are the property of Petfly Productions, Paramount, SciFi and probably a foreign syndicator or two we don't know about. No money has exchanged hands and no copyright infringement is intended. All POV switches are my own doing and are intentional; pretend you're reading through a camera lens.

Thanks to J.A. for being beta boss. Or should that be, a boss beta? (And if you know what that means, you're older than you're letting on! <g>)

* * *

Simon ambled into his living room from the kitchen, utter contentment in his bearing as only a man thoroughly at home in his own element can feel. Highball glass in one hand and the ever-present but now lit cigar in the other, he gratefully lowered himself into his favorite chair, soaking up the quiet atmosphere. In a few hours, the peace would be happily shattered by the close friends he'd invited to celebrate "Kwanzaa Eve," as Connor dubbed it, even though it was really the sixth night of the seven-day holiday. Simon's eyes softened as he took a sip of his single-malt scotch with its single ice cube, recalling the surprise, then curiosity and then the building enthusiasm those in his department had expressed when he extended the invitation. Except for a few poker night regulars, Simon's home was as much an unknown to his department as were the flavors and sources of his private coffee stash, and he preferred it that way. 

In the last few months, however, with Daryl away at his first year of college but home now on holiday break, Simon had started feeling tendrils of a vague longing wrap around his heart. He knew it wasn't thoughts of his own mortality -- he'd dealt with that long ago, shortly after graduating from the police academy. It wasn't even what Joan had called "empty nest syndrome," though he missed Daryl terribly when he was gone and talked to him at least once a week on the phone. It was more elemental than that, a stirring of something forgotten but that was too important to have been forgotten. Not an unease exactly; more like a sense of unfulfillment, although for the life of him he couldn't have cited a single thing he felt he was lacking in his life at that moment. 

Maybe that was why he'd decided to celebrate Kwanzaa at home this year instead of going to other friends' homes as the Bankses had always done, and then just he and Daryl after the divorce. Getting back to his roots? Passing the traditional torch on to his son? Making some kind of political statement to his colleagues? He didn't think it was any of that. Simon sighed, shaking off the introspective mood. Tonight was going to be good. Not a big party, about twenty or so of his closer friends and colleagues and their significant others. He'd been secretly pleased that not one invitation he'd quietly extended at work had been rejected, especially considering "Kwanzaa Eve" was also New Year's Eve, and he knew his hard-working, harder-playing department had no lack of parties to choose from. 

The wintry late afternoon sun, poking through delicately embroidered eyelets in the drapery sheers, limned the mkeka along the opposite wall in tiny, golden spotlights. Daryl had put seven fresh candles in the kinara that morning, their waxy dark green, black and red standing sentinel over the other traditional holiday offerings spread out on the straw mat. 

Pursing his lips, Simon realized he hadn't heard from Jim since before lunch when the detective left the station to spring Sandburg from the hospital. For once, the reason for the observer's latest visit wasn't job-related, although Simon felt a twinge of conscience for even thinking along that line, even if he had thought it without any sense of relief. Sandburg was either the unluckiest son-of-abitch to walk the earth, or he was working off some of his selfdescribed "seriously negative karma" he might have accumulated from a past life. Simon snorted derisively. Sandburg didn't have a mean bone in his body, in this life or the last, so all that left was bad luck. Even this latest round with the medicos couldn't be blamed on association with his equally injury-prone partner, although from Jim's slumped shoulders all week, Simon knew he'd characteristically assumed the mantle of guilt anyway... 

* * *

Shifting the two heavy "Heal The Sound" canvas shopping bags to one arm, Jim felt like a novice magician as he struggled one-handed to isolate his front door key on its crowded ring. Finally sliding it into the lock, he froze. Sentinel eyes scrutinized what looked like smeared blood on the rim of the lock. 

All senses on red alert, he simultaneously processed that it was Sandburg's blood and Sandburg's heartbeat inside the apartment -- but no one else's. Still, he cautiously opened the door, stooping to silently set down the bags, drawing his gun as he straightened. There were drops of blood on the floor and on the familiar backpack under the coat rack. He subconsciously checked the balcony doors as he eased the front door closed behind him. 

"Shit!" 

Blair. In the bathroom. 

Stowing his gun, Jim trotted down the hall. "Blair?" 

"Yeah, Jim, in here... DAMmit..." 

Jim's breath caught as he entered the bathroom. Blair, bare-legged but still in his jacket, was sitting on the edge of the tub. Bloody jeans, shoes and socks were heaped in one corner, and bandage wrappers littered the floor. The outside of his right knee bled profusely when he lifted a sterile pad to check the injury. Jim's hand quickly closed on his, keeping the knee exposed, as he knelt to get a better look. 

"What happened?" Jim frowned at the multiple deep scratches, one of which was actually spurting a tiny, rhythmic red stream onto the floor. 

Blair gave a shaky laugh. "You won't believe this, man, but a cat made like I was a tree and decided to go for a climb." His left hand also sported several shallow scratches that had already stopped bleeding. "It's not really that bad but I can't get it to stop. Sorry about the mess..." 

"Shut up, Sandburg," Jim growled gently, straightening the leg then lifting the pressure pad to check the injury again. It was no longer spurting but still bled freely. "Have you put anything on it yet?" 

"No." 

"Let's get some hydrogen peroxide on here and then take you to the ER." 

"For a measly cat scratch?! You gotta be kiddin'." 

Blair grabbed onto a solid shoulder for balance as Jim pivoted him around so the injured leg was now in the tub. 

Jim pulled a brown bottle out of the medicine cabinet and opened it. "Sorry, Chief, but this is going to sting like hell..." 

Jim lifted the pad and drizzled the peroxide over the cuts. Blair reflexively gasped and jerked backward into his partner, unintentionally bending his leg. Blood immediately spurted again. Jim set down the peroxide and gently maneuvered the leg straight again, making sure Blair didn't fall off the edge of the tub. 

"I think you've nicked a vein in there." He patted Blair on the back. "You okay?" 

Blair nodded, blinking a little dazedly. "Sonuvabitch, that hurts..." 

"Yeah, I know." Jim opened more dressings, folded them for greater thickness and, straightening the leg once again, he wrapped them in place with an Ace bandage. "This'll help keep your leg straight. Lemme see your hand." 

Blair held out his left arm and mutely watched as Jim helped him out of his jacket, leaving the younger man only in a plaid shirt and briefs. 

"Put your hand under the faucet." 

Blair complied as Jim snagged the antibacterial soap off the sink. Jim carefully washed the hand's scratches, and Blair braced himself as more peroxide was used. If it didn't sting so badly, he could almost be intrigued by the faint sizzle the chemical made as it waged its small-scale germ warfare in the ragged cuts. He idly wondered if Jim's eyes would be able to see the battle being fought as antibodies rushed in at the eleventh hour to help white blood cells claim victory. 

"Hey, you zoning out on me, buddy?" 

"No..." Blair shivered. "Getting a little drafty in here, if you know what I mean." 

Jim did know but had studiously ignored his partner's state of undress. As he gave Blair a hand up off the chilly porcelain, he couldn't help but notice the tremors in the bare legs, nor could he ignore the contrast between Blair's tanned hands and face to the white of the legs. Cross-country skiing kept his partner's frame in tone, but the legs, not recently exposed to bright, winter snow-sun, looked particularly vulnerable now. It was all Jim could do to keep his hands from reaching to rub in a little warmth and comfort, soothe away the agitation. 

"Let's get you into some sweats, then we'll go." 

"No way, man. It's literally just a scratch. 'Sides, you know hospitals. During holidays, the administrators try to send as many patients home as they can, but the staff is just itching for new victims to keep their miserable working selves company." As they hobbled into Blair's bedroom, Blair stole a look at his partner, who pretended he wasn't listening. "Look, I'm cold, I'm hungry, and the bleeding's stopped." He pointed to the clean Ace bandage. "See? No emergency here." 

Settling Blair on the edge of the bed, Jim crossed to the dresser and rummaged around for some sweats, which he tossed to his partner. He eyed Blair critically as the younger man struggled into them without bending the one leg. Maybe he was being a little overzealous, but cat scratches could be nasty customers. 

Blair grunted in satisfaction as he tied the drawstring and grinned at his way-too-serious partner. "Toss me some socks, too, willya? Thick ones." As Jim did, Blair knew he'd won. "So, what'd you bring home for dinner?" 

"Oh, shit, the ice cream...!" 

Jim dashed out of the room, Blair limping stiff-legged after him. "Junk Food Night? Cool. Hey, what flavor'd you get?" 

The following morning, Blair was already up and foraging for cup and coffee when Jim meandered down the stairs. Blair had apparently slept in the same sweatpants, socks and T-shirt he'd worn the night before. 

"How's the leg this morning, Chief?" 

"Fine." 

"No more bleeding?" 

"Nope. And my foot hasn't fallen off, either, see?" 

"What?" 

"Sorry, man, just a small joke." 

"Very small." Jim took the proffered cup of coffee. "What's on your agenda for today?" 

"Oh, the usual. Catching up on a ton of papers for school I'd saved for holiday break. Cleaning out my email before my ISP declares my inbox a Superfund site. And I assume putting in some time at my favorite cop shop." 

Jim gave a wave of dismissal. "Don't worry about the station. Simon's threatened to revoke our invitation to his party this weekend if I don't get a couple of reports finished by end of business today. I'm flying nothing more challenging than a desk." 

"Well, I could help you get those done." 

"Don't sweat it, Chief. 'Sides, I really think you should stay off that leg as much as possible today." He raised a hand, forestalling Blair's interruption. "Just relax. Take advantage of the school break. Humor an old man, willya?" 

As Jim headed for the door, Blair detoured to the couch and his already-opened laptop. "Okay by me. But call if you need me. I could be there in no time." 

"I know. 

Blair looked up in surprise at the warmth in Jim's voice, but Jim didn't see him, occupied with getting into his jacket. More than warmth, almost... affection. Well, why not? Even though he knew Jim would cut out his own tongue before admitting it, the tough detective really was an affectionate guy. Blair just couldn't figure out what he'd done to warrant that sentiment. And this early in the day, too. He grinned as Jim opened the door. 

"Have a good day, Jim." 

"You, too." Jim was about to pull the door shut when he glanced back at his partner's bent, curly head, glasses firmly in place. Blair's right leg was stretched out on the couch, left foot planted on the floor, the laptop spanning both thighs, enduring the tapping of keys as if it were held in place by invisible magnets. 

Blair chose at that moment to look up again, his guileless blue gaze nearly taking Jim's breath away. The ghost of a smile started to appear when Jim merely nodded to him and pulled the door shut. With a fond shake of his head -- 'Sentinels!' -- Blair bent once more to his work. 

Jim wasn't at all surprised when he came home early that evening to find his erstwhile partner still on the couch, almost in exactly the same position as he'd left him that morning. Only instead of bent over the laptop, Blair had scooted down to recline on the pile of pillows bolstered behind him. 

Jim carefully laid his keys in the basket and slipped out of his jacket, practically tiptoeing across the floor to rescue Blair's glasses, dangling from one loosely curled finger off the edge of the couch. 

As he bent over to take the glasses, he stopped, chuckling to himself. The laptop screen was flashing rhythmically as line after line of apostrophes was being input by one sleep-heavy finger carelessly rested on the keyboard. Jim wondered how many thousands of pages of punctuation Blair would wake to. He looked at the lower left corner of the screen and cringed. Well, not thousands but a couple hundred. Not knowing what else to do at the moment, he knelt down to get better purchase on the computer, hit Ctrl-S, then inched the laptop off his friend and set it on the coffee table. 

Reaching for the fragile glasses, his fingers almost recoiled at the heat in the other's hand, and he quickly put a hand to Blair's forehead. 

"Blair..." 

Blair opened sleepy eyes and immediately smiled, and had Jim not already been kneeling, the sweetness in the other's face would've pole-axed him where he stood. 

"Don't DO that, Sandburg!" 

Blair blinked in confusion, although he knew what Jim really meant. He knew full well the effect he had on others, but he wielded that power gently. "What'd I do?" 

"You're burning up, you know that?" 

"Oh. Yeah, thought it was getting a little chilly in here. Just me, huh?" 

"How're you feeling?" Jim sat on the edge of the couch and started pushing up the right leg of Blair's sweatpants. 

"Pretty much okay. Just got a little sleepy working, you know? Ow! Be careful!" 

Jim couldn't get the pants cuff shoved half-way up Blair's calf before he had to stop. The leg felt hot and swollen to his sensitive touch. "This isn't good, Blair. I need to check your knee." 

Blair fumbled with the sweatpants' drawstring and, lifting his hips, let Jim tug them down. Looking down at his now exposed bandaged knee, Blair slowly brought his eyes up to meet Jim's. "Red streaks aren't good, are they?" 

Jim laid a warm, gauging hand on the shin just below the knee. "No, they're not." He stood and offered his hands. "Can you stand up for a sec?" 

"Sure." Taking Jim's hands, Blair pulled himself up off the couch, his hands flattening on Jim's broad shoulders when the other bent down to pull up the sweats and, straightening again, tie them closed. Blair, a little disoriented as much by Jim's proximity as head rush, whispered, "Uh... don't move so fast, willya...?" 

Jim corralled him with a strong arm around his waist and collected their jackets. "Come on, tough guy, let's get you to the hospital." 

"Aw, Jiiiimmm... can't I just take two aspirin and you call me in the morning...?" 

Jim didn't think he would have ever been grateful for needing an emergency room on a holiday night, but they were one of only four cases needing attention, which meant no waiting. As soon as the attending physician unwrapped the angry-looking knee, Blair was whisked into x-ray and a short time later told he would need surgery. 

"Why surgery? Jim, tell him. It's literally just a scratch." 

"That has turned septic. Listen to your doctor." 

The physician nodded his head, appreciating Jim's no-nonsense calmness. "We'll start you on IV antibiotics right away, but that isn't the problem. The surgery is necessary because of the damage done to a vein inside the joint itself. Very hard even for IV medication to reach because of the limited blood flow there. So we'll just give your treatment a little jumpstart by cleaning out the joint thoroughly and make sure there isn't any secondary infection setting in, such as from foreign matter. The nurse just gave you a pre-op shot to help you relax. Ah, here's your ride now." 

As a couple orderlies wheeled a gurney into the room, and Jim patted Blair's arm. "See you in a while, Chief. I'll be here when you wake up." 

Looking suddenly very unsure of himself, Blair nodded silently, and Jim could see fine tremors in the other's jaw. More cold and shock than fear. In less than a half hour, he'd been dragged out of his warm home, stripped down to a thin paper gown to be poked, turned, measured and questioned, and now was headed for the sterile oblivion of surgery. 

While the staff was momentarily distracted with the myriad details of getting Blair ready to move, Jim stepped close again and wrapped his large, warm hands around Blair's face, getting the younger man's attention. As the pads of his thumbs softly smoothed the shadowed skin beneath Blair's eyes, those beautiful eyes closed in fatigue, but a shiver still couldn't help but escape as Blair hugged himself in a futile effort to hang onto what little warmth he had left. 

A touch on Jim's elbow urged him to move a few inches to one side as one of the orderlies slid a heated blanket over his partner. Blair's eyes flew open and he gave Jim a soft grin in gratitude. One last pat to the cheek, and Blair was wheeled out of the cubicle. 

"What do you mean, you're not sure?! It's been two days! How long does it take to diagnose a simple infection, for chrissake?" 

Unruffled, the doctor steered Jim away from Blair's closing hospital room door and guided him down the corridor toward the nurses' station. "I appreciate your concern, Detective, but we had to culture his blood and that takes three days. He isn't responding to the broad-spectrum antibiotics we've given him, but we'll know tomorrow what we're dealing with and can begin a specific treatment. In the meantime, he's resting comfortably--" 

"'Comfortably'! He didn't look very damn comfortable to me just now. And he's gotten less comfortable every hour that he's been in here. His leg's twice its normal size, he can't move, he can barely eat, just how 'comfortable' can he possibly be?" 

A hand fell on his shoulder from behind and he reflexively shook it off. 

"Jim." 

Simon. "Shit, sorry, Captain." 

At the doctor's inquiring look, Simon removed his gloves and introduced himself, the two men shaking hands. Jim wiped his face with one hand while clamping the other apologetically onto Simon's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, sir, just a little wired." He gave the doctor a rueful glance. "I know you're doing everything you can." 

"No problem, Detective. Even for us professionals, the waiting's the hardest part. As soon as we've isolated the bug chewing on him, you'll be surprised how quickly you'll see improvement. He's asleep for the night now. You should go home and get some rest." 

As the doctor nodded goodbye to Simon and turned away, Simon eyed his detective. "Sounds like good advice. How're you doing?" 

"Goddammit, Simon, this isn't about me." 

"Whoa, sounds like it oughta be." The minute slump of Jim's shoulders offered yet another apology, and Simon gave the nearest one an understanding squeeze. Simon indicated Blair's room. "I heard most of what the doctor said as I walked in. Think I could stick my head in for a minute?" 

Jim nodded and took a deep, steadying breath, then led Simon into the dimly lit room. "He's pretty out of it." 

When Simon entered the room, he was struck by how quietly normal the setting seemed. He had been expecting the rhythmic whoosh of a respirator, beeping monitors, and harsh lights; historically, hospital visits had nearly always involved the ICU. But except for Blair's heavily bandaged and swollen leg suspended from a metal frame in what looked like a sausage casing, the younger man could have been dozing peacefully. It wasn't until Simon got closer that he could see the unhealthy fevered brightness in the cheeks and the IV and catheter lines. Paternal instinct moved his fingers to Blair's forehead and he let out a silent whistle of concern. Jim nodded glumly in acknowledgement. Simon jerked his head toward the door and Jim followed him out. 

"Jim, if the doctor isn't overly worried, why don't you cut yourself some slack? Go home. Get some sleep." 

"You know if I go home, I won't sleep. I'll wait until they get the lab results tomorrow and then... we'll see." 

Simon considered his detective for a moment before nodding. "All right, but I don't want to see you anywhere near my department until the day after tomorrow. You know what I'm sayin' here?" 

Jim dug stiff fingers into his tired eyes. "Yeah, thanks, Simon." 

With a parting smack to the other's arm, Simon headed out, pulling on his gloves as he walked. And Jim returned to the quiet, dim room to hold vigil until someone in a white coat could tell him what he wanted to hear. 

* * *

Simon's eyes narrowed as he drained the last of his scotch and took a pleasurable draw on his cigar. The thin haze of smoke in the living room diffused the late afternoon sunlight, giving a soft-focus quality to the holiday decorations. 

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, making him nearly jump out of his chair. 

"Daryl, for cryin' out loud!" 

"Sorry, Dad." Daryl was struggling with several bulging plastic grocery bags hanging off both arms, giving him the appearance of a lumpy Michelin Man. 

Simon moored his cigar in an ashtray and rose to help. "Don't let Sandburg see these bags or he'll--" 

"--make me do beach clean-up for a month." 

"Wouldn't hurt for you to do community service once in a while, you know." 

"Dad, when was the last time you saw me sunbathe at the beach? Or anywhere else, for that matter?" 

"That's not the point, son, and you know it." 

Daryl gave his father a teasing grin. "I know. Hey, is Blair gonna be able to come?" 

They walked into the kitchen, dropping bags in front of cupboards and on counters. 

"Hope so. Jim was supposed to have picked him up around lunchtime." 

"Cool." 

Simon reached into a bag and pulled out a half-gallon carton of ice cream, holding it up for inspection. "This wasn't on the list." And another. "Daryl, I said we needed coffee, not coffee ice cream." 

"Oh." Daryl gave his father a pseudo-sorry glance. "Gee, I guess we'll just have to keep it, 'cause it'll melt before I can get it back to the store." He gave his father a playful shove. "Go relax. You looked like I interrupted deep thoughts just now when I came in. I'll put this stuff away." 

Simon returned to the living room, relishing the busy sounds of his son in the kitchen. He picked up his abandoned cigar, relit it and gazed out the front window. 

It had been a hellish couple of days for Blair after Simon had seen him in the hospital. Turned out the kid hadn't been scratched, he'd been bitten, and the bacteria wreaking all the havoc was a virulent little bastard called pastorella. Wouldn't have been so hard to knock if the vein hadn't been in a joint. While the antibiotics worked almost immediately to quell the fever, they also apparently made Blair prodigiously sick to his stomach, which discouraged him from eating, which encouraged him to sleep more. Which made his already tired and worried partner even more tired and worried. 

Simon couldn't remember Jim being so stubbornly protective, even when the kid had been hurt in the line of duty. But partners were like that, he thought somewhat wistfully, the memories of his own partnerships cherished. Most of them, anyway. Even those, though, couldn't hold a candle to Jim and Blair's, nor could any other that he could call to mind from his many years of service. Must be a Sentinel thing, as Sandburg would sometimes say, although, Simon sighed, he usually used it to excuse the latest gaff of his occasionally obstreperous partner. 

With a long, sibilant draw on his cigar, Simon hoped Sandburg would feel well enough to at least drop by. It would do everyone's heart good to see him back on his feet. Then Simon meandered back toward the kitchen to see what other illicit treats his son had added to the grocery list. Like maybe some Danish for tomorrow. Go great with that Jamaican Blue Mountain he just brought home... 

"Sandburg, there is no way in hell I'm wearing that." 

It was said without heat but with a conviction that brooked no argument. Jim and Blair were in Blair's room, Blair, sitting on the edge of his bed, holding up a brightly colored vest. The colors were mostly shades of electric blue with occasional disjointed lines of orange and black breaking up the asymmetrical blue geometric shapes. Unlike Blair's own festively colored blue vest that was traditional black satin in back, the one he held for Jim was designed for Kwanzaa and was patterned front and back. 

Jim was sitting at Blair's desk, sipping at one of the two cups of coffee he'd brought in to wake up Sleeping Beauty. He'd gotten his partner home from the hospital without incident but had had to negotiate with Blair to take a nap -- "like some kindergartner," Blair groused -- or he wouldn't drive him to Simon's party that night. And since Blair was "no way gonna miss it," he'd caved. And slept for almost four solid hours. His leg was back to normal size, but it couldn't yet be bent, at least not until the stitches came out in a few days. Blair didn't have to use crutches, but it did mean he needed help sometimes sitting down and getting up. Climbing into the truck had been a Laurel & Hardy routine, and they'd both laughed themselves to tears until Blair finally tumbled sideways into the seat and Jim shut the door. But it was a hysteria born of relief and gladness to be going home and anticipation of seeing friends later at Simon's party. 

Knowing his partner's usual penchant for darker, subdued colors, Blair had bought the vest for Jim weeks ago. 

"C'mon, what're you gonna wear? A charcoal gray sweater with a gray T-shirt underneath? You can't insult our host." 

"Simon won't give a rat's pajamas what I wear." 

"No-o-o... but he will notice that you've been pro-active in choosing something appropriate." 

"'Pro-active'? I'm not bucking for a promotion here, Chief. It's just a party." 

"Get in the spirit, man, what's the matter with you? 'Sides, it'll compliment the one I'm wearing." 

"Oh, well, there's a reason then." 

"It's the culturally respectful thing to do." 

"I can be respectful without blinding someone. You're taking this way too seriously." 

"Okay." Then: "It'll really set off your beautiful blue eyes." 

Jim nearly did a spit take. Putting down his coffee with a sharp rap, he grabbed the vest out of Blair's hands. "All right already, gimme the damned thing. Wouldn't want to wear something that didn't do THAT." 

Blair laughed and accepted Jim's extended hand to lever himself off the bed. "And wear your black jeans, not those baggy chinos you like so much." 

Jim, wondering just when Sandburg started caring about the tightness of his pants, paused at the door and turned around. "What do you care?" 

"Not me, man, the ladies." 

Oh. "What're _you_ going to wear?" 

"Sadly, I have to wear the baggy stuff. Bandage won't fit in _my_ ass-hugging, thigh-gripping, artfully ripped denims." 

Oh shit. 

Apparently they were the last to arrive at Simon's because the din of cheery voices and pulsating African rhythms could already be heard from the street. Fortunately for Simon's reputation, his was one of several parties in the same, usually quiet block, and no doubt the presence of so many cops in the neighborhood practically guaranteed relatively sane partying. However, it wasn't Simon who opened the front door when Jim rang the doorbell. 

"Habari gani, Hairboy!" 

Brown completely engulfed Blair in a bear hug, practically smothering Blair's own greeting. Brown turned to Jim with the same enthusiasm, but the senior detective held up both hands in warning, so Brown, not to be discouraged, stuck out a huge paw instead. 

"Habari gani, Jim." 

"Ditto, H." He mumbled to Sandburg, "Whatever that means." 

Simon's disembodied voice yelled at them to come in and shut the damn door. 

Sandburg mumbled back, "It's a traditional Swahili greeting for 'what's happening' or 'how's it going'." 

Then it seemed that everybody simultaneously noticed their arrival, and they were both pounded and hugged in welcome, Blair especially. Jim managed to tunnel through the merry-makers to stand next to Simon, who'd just opened a beer for him. 

"Happy Kwanzaa, Simon." 

"Thanks, Jim. I'd say that to you, too, but I doubt it'd have the same meaning." 

They laughed and clinked bottles before taking a drink. 

"Looks like the kid's doing pretty good." 

"Yeah, for the most part he's doing great. We probably won't stay very long. He's still on some pretty heavy antibiotics and falls asleep as soon as he stops moving." 

"Then there's no problem with him staying awake." They laughed again at the universal truth behind Simon's observation. "What a weird fucking thing to happen. An alley cat putting him in the hospital longer than any bullet ever has." 

Jim looked down, not knowing how to respond. Simon cocked his head, puzzled. 

"I say something wrong?" 

Jim looked embarrassed for a moment. "No, not at all. Just... maybe a little close to home." 

Blair finally managed his way to their host's side. "Habari gani, Simon." 

Simon nodded, raising his beer bottle. Blair, raising his drinkless hand, gave Simon's bottle a couple of knuckle taps in rhythm to the music playing. Simon shook his head, chuckling. 

"Only you, Sandburg. How're you feeling?" 

"Pretty good. Nice party. Could do with a few more chairs, though." He didn't see Jim take notice of the remark and look around. "Hey, haven't seen Daryl yet. Isn't he home from school?" 

"He's around here somewhere. He's really looking forward to seeing you." 

"Yeah, me, too." 

As if on cue, Blair was grabbed from behind and lifted bodily about two feet in the air. "Blair!" 

When he was set down, he twisted around and had to look _up_ at Daryl. "Hey, Daryl! Jeez, they cut out the shortening in your diet, huh?" 

"Good to see you, man. Habari gani!" 

"Habari gani, man." 

"I'm really glad you could come, just getting out of the hospital and all. What exactly happened? Dad never tells me anything anymore." 

Simon rolled his eyes. 

"Tell you what, you find me a place to sit down so I can get off this leg for a few minutes, and I'll tell you all about it." 

"No problem. Follow me..." 

Jim's radar was so focused on Blair as the two younger men wedged their way through the crowd that he didn't notice Simon watching him closely. 

"He'll be all right, Jim." 

"Yeah." 

"By the way, nice threads," Simon observed, yanking on the front of Jim's vest. "Really bring out your eyes." 

"Oh, jeeeez, Simon..." 

Grinning, Simon cleared his throat, grabbed Jim's beer bottle and clanked it with his to get everyone's attention. Jim ducked into the crowd and out of the limelight Simon was creating. 

"Ladies and not-so-gentle men, may I have your undivided, please. Rafe, can you turn down the stereo a little?" 

As everyone turned and smiled expectantly at Simon, he was struck by how very young most of the faces were. He was also struck by how proud he was to call them friends. 

"Looking around me, I can see there aren't a whole lot of you here for whom Kwanzaa has a personal meaning." The racially mixed, demographically correct room laughed. "Which is kind of why I thought it would be nice to invite you to the first ever Kwanzaa party to be hosted at the Banks residence." 

The crowd burst into appreciative applause and a few whoops. 

"Which is not an insignificant observation, as Kwanzaa literally means "first fruits" of the harvest and it's also the first time some of you have been to my home. Now I'm not going to drone on about the history of the holiday -- I'll be sending you a memo next week, which you will read, sign and return to me..." 

More appreciative laughter and a few expected groans. 

"...and I had considered asking each of you to come prepared to demonstrate some traditional aspect of the holiday to share with the rest of us, whether it was by telling a story..." 

Groans. 

"...writing a poem..." 

Unabashed wails of anguish. 

"...singing..." 

Sample howling. 

"...or dancing." 

"You mean like this, Captain?" And Brown showed off what he was certain were smooth moves, to the delight of the crowd. 

"Fortunately, common sense kicked in sparing us all from the semiliterate, tone-deaf, and..." looking pointedly at Brown "...arrhythmic offerings I'm now certain would have resulted. But despite my justifiable misgivings, I still wanted to share with those of you I consider to be my closest friends what Kwanzaa means to me and to my son, Daryl, who is home for the holidays from his first year in college." 

More applause and a testosterone chant of "Dar-YL, Dar-YL" brought the young man forward to stand bashfully by his father. 

Blair had come back into the living room with Daryl, limping a little, and planted himself at Jim's right, who promptly curved a supporting arm behind his back as they shared a grin. Jim wasn't surprised when Blair leaned into that support, the younger man's energy level noticeably lower than when they'd arrived just a short while ago. 

"Before I do that, however, we will start by lighting the seven candles on the kinara, each of which stands for the Nguzo Saba, the Seven Principles of Kwanzaa. Normally we would only be lighting the last candle tonight, but we -- Daryl and I -- thought it would be nice to wait and light them all with you here." 

There was an appreciative murmur and pleased smiles from the crowd. Daryl lit a punk stick and stepped to the mkeka, holding the glowing end to the first candle on the left. 

"The first principle is umoja," he said quietly. 

Simon translated. "Unity." 

He lit the second candle. "The second principle is kujichagulia." 

"Self-determination." 

"The third principle is ujima." 

"Collective work and responsibility." 

"The fourth principle is ujamaa." 

"Cooperative economics." 

"The fifth principle is nia." 

"Purpose." 

"The sixth principle is kuumba." 

"Creativity." 

Daryl turned and faced the crowd. "My dad and I would like the last candle to be lit by someone who we think embodies the seventh principle by the way he lives, by the way he gives help and hope to others, and by being the best friend anyone could ever have. And also because we're really, really glad he could be with us tonight." 

Daryl walked over to a nonplussed Blair and handed the glowing stick to him. 

Brown chimed in: "He's also probably the only white guy here who knows what the seventh principle is!" 

As soft laughter of assent embraced everyone in good will, Blair's eyes glistened in the rich light, and he gave a tremulous smile to Daryl, then looked up at Jim silently asking to keep him on his feet as he crossed the short distance to the mkeka. 

Blair bent over to touch the last candle on the right, murmuring, "The seventh principle is imani." 

Simon, his own voice now husky, intoned, "Faith." 

There was an impromptu moment of comfortable, silent reflection as everyone simply watched the beauty of the seven lit candles cast soft, golden light on the wall. 

Daryl reached and took the punk stick from Blair, breaking the spell. 

Simon cleared his throat. "I had a little speech prepared about the importance of family, friends and community, but as they say, a picture's worth a thousand words. And..." gesturing to include the whole room "...the picture doesn't get any clearer than this." 

There were friendly nods throughout the room and some spontaneous hugging. 

"So let's get on with celebrating the 'Good of Life,' shall we?" 

This time, there were unrestrained cheers and clapping as everyone returned to their chatter and drinks. 

Blair was still standing with his back to the room, his partner's arm still around him. 

Jim, whose eyes hadn't left his friend's face, leaned down to whisper, "How're you doing, Chief?" 

Blair's mouth stretched into small, closed smile as he opened then lifted shining eyes to answer. "Take me home, Jim." 

Jim bent down a little further to give him a soft, acknowledging kiss on the temple, but at that exact moment Blair raised his face and the kiss hit the left corner of his mouth and the tiny, round scar below it that had fascinated Jim for years. Both men held their breath, the moment suspended, then Blair sighed and abruptly leaned heavily into Jim's warm strength. 

To anyone else in the room, it looked as if Jim and his partner were simply sharing a few private words and a one-armed hug. But the same eyes that saw the kiss also saw the slump, and Simon quickly but unobtrusively stepped to Jim's side to offer assistance with what appeared to him to be a hundred and sixty pounds of dead weight. 

"Need some help here?" he asked Jim quietly. 

To Simon's amazement, Blair opened his eyes and straightened up a little. "Sorry, Simon, just really tired all of a sudden." 

"I think we're going to head home, sir. It's been a long day for Blair." 

"Been a long week, you mean," Simon retorted. 

Jim nodded. "Yeah, that too. Would you say our good-byes for us?" 

"Sure." Simon turned to the room. "Everybody, listen up!" 

Jim hissed under his breath, "I meant quietly, Simon." 

Ignoring him, Simon continued with his announcement. "Jim and Blair are taking off." 

Predictably, everyone protested, and it took Jim and Blair ten minutes of wading through well-wishers just to get to the front door. Daryl and Simon walked them out. 

Daryl gave Blair a hug. "Thanks for coming, man." 

"Thank _you_." Blair broke the hug but kept his hands on the other's arms. "I didn't deserve it, you know." 

Simon rested a hand on his son's shoulder and smiled at Blair. " _That_ is why you _did_." 

Jim looked so proud of his partner just then, Simon was sure he'd pop a button on that new vest. Jim extended a hand to his boss. "Thanks for the party, Simon. It was... good. Unique." 

"It was, wasn't it?" Simon grinned and waggled his cigar up and down. 

"Yeah, Simon," Blair echoed. "Man, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to midnight. You can have my share of the champagne." 

Jim turned Blair away from the door. "Come on, Your Magnanimousness, let's get you home." 

As Jim herded his drooping partner down the walk and into the truck, Daryl ducked back into the house. Jim saw Simon still on the porch and waved. 

"Happy New Year, Simon!" 

"Happy Kwanzaa, Jim!" 

As the truck pulled away, Simon mused at another Kwanzaa "first" that had occurred here tonight. Jim's truck turned a corner out of sight, and Simon savored a long pull of his cigar, its dry heat friendly in the cold, damp, night air. He was a little surprised at himself for not being surprised at the kiss. He was even more surprised at how unfazed _they_ had been after that one electrifying moment. Hell, why shouldn't they be? They were practically Siamese twins as it was. 

Smoke crinkled his eyes, and he said a little blessing for his friends. He felt strangely unconcerned for what it might mean in the cold light of day. If tonight _was_ a first, he -- and they -- would have some time to get used to the... what? Idea of it? No, that wasn't it. No, they'd figure how to deal with it before it became a problem in the bullpen, and hopefully before anyone else found them "out." Simon snorted at his own unintentional pun. 

Then cringed as a blast from his own stereo nearly flattened him. Miming shooting himself in the head, he jerked open the door and strode back into his castle. 

"Brown, turn that damned thing down! Rafe! Get off the coffee table! No-o-o, Connor, those are not to eat, they're an offering..." <sigh> "...oh, man..." 

**FIN**

* * *

End Habari Gani! by Seasprite: seasprite1992@yahoo.com

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